


The Blood Rite

by illyriantremors



Series: Shadowsinger: An Azriel/Moriel Fic [4]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Death, The Blood Rite, Violence, acomaf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-14 23:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8032810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illyriantremors/pseuds/illyriantremors
Summary: Azriel is dropped in the middle of the Illyrian Mountains to take the Blood Rite, but Cassian and Rhysand are nowhere in sight. With the help of his shadows, he has to fight to find his brothers and defeat some unexpected opponents to survive the Rite.





	The Blood Rite

**Author's Note:**

> Universe Alternate: I'm not sure if Sarah has ever specified what age fae are when they come of age, but for the purposes of this fic, I've made Az and crew all 21 when they take the Blood Rite. It's older than I imagine they would have been, but I liked the idea of Az having spent 10 full years with the boys before he becomes a certified adult and meets Mor. And I get the 10 years based off the fact that he was 11 when he first arrives at camp.

_ I’m gonna fight ‘em off. A seven nation army couldn’t hold me back… And if I catch it comin' back my way I'm gonna serve it to you. And that ain't what you want to hear, but that's what I'll do. And the feeling coming from my bones says, "Find a home." _

\- The White Stripes

* * *

 

Night was a bitter mistress. Having felt robbed of my attention in the daylight, she avenged herself on my appearance before her now with knives of frozen wind and solid, compact snow and ice too uncomfortable to sleep on.

My leathers were soaked through within minutes despite how unyielding the snow beneath me was. I’d never known anything to be so equally flexible and resolute as the ice was now. I shuddered, sending my hands rubbing over my rib cage for warmth as I huddled in an outcropping of rock carved from the side of Illyria’s steepest mountains. Behind me, my wings ached with the tension of fighting and the ropes binding them down cruelly to my back.

When they had dropped me down, I had risen quickly to find three other Illyrian novices rousing, prepared to bear down on me. A fourth, the shadows told me, was already making in the opposite direction from us at an alarmingly fast pace.

Smart lad.

As I pushed myself up, the shadows immediately went out of me with quick return. Once I’d finally mustered up the courage to start speaking directly to them as Cassian had once suggested I do, everything locked into place.

The training rings ceased to be a struggle with the shadows calling every attack a split second before the hands and feet of my opponents reached out. And a fog in my head lifted as if the veins connecting the muscles of my mind had been clogged from my hesitations, no more complicated than a blocked drain.

I used the shadows, honing and training them as much as they shaped me and before long, I’d quickly caught up in the camps. Even Cassian was less of a threat, though he still wiped the floor with me by the end. It just took him several hours to do it.

And then there were the siphons. My hands ached without the feel of their energy against the skin channeling my strength and magic. I subconsciously rubbed at my palms, missing the feel of them.

No siphons. No blade. No wings. Only me and three hulking Illyrians that Cassian, Rhys, and I could now eat amicably for breakfast between the three of us.

And my shadows.

_ Up! _

One snapped at me as another barked in my ear,  _ behind! _ My elbow darted back and crunched against the first attacker’s nose. A second came at my front directly and within a few painful seconds, I had him out cold on the ground. The first came back trying to catch me off guard while I was distracted, but I rounded on him before he could get his hands on me, sticking my thumbs in on precisely the right point on his neck so that he was out too.

The third one, however, was different. A greedy, hungry look gnawed on the edges of his face as he circled me, not rushing into the attack.

I never understood the death of the Blood Rite. Year after year as we trained in the camps and the ceremony was held, I would watch hundreds of Illyrians take to the mountains and barely even half return. It seemed pointless to me. Conditions were difficult enough to survive in the frigid cold mountains that the deaths were… wasteful.

War was coming. Why drain a single drop more than necessary?

_ Becausssssse it’s fun _ , a voice snaked in my mind in the quiet spots where I would think about this issue.

And truth be told, it was. The bloodlust of fighting was intoxicating, like a drug that fixed every down point you’d ever known. There were days I didn’t leave the ring until the early hours of the morning told me to stop, I was so drunk on the high of bruised knuckles and broken bones.

But fighting to the  _ death _ ? That desire still eluded me. It was one thing to kill an enemy and entirely another to do it for sport. And during the Blood Rite, I was the enemy of every other Illyrian.

When he couldn’t stand my stillness any longer, the Illyrian pounced. He was strong, but I was stronger. Allying myself with the toughest Illyrian novice - maybe ever - and the most powerful High Lord’s son ever born had made me that way. We grappled for some time, the snow biting at us as we went, until I had him pinned beneath me in such a way that he wouldn’t get the upper hand again.

“Do it,” he spat, looking me dead in the eye. I sighed. I didn’t want to, but I also saw the fire still raging behind his thirsty, thirsty eyes and the second I let him up, he’d come after me again. And if I left him unconscious, he’d follow my scent through the mountains, tracking me until one of us went down and stayed that way.

In one fluid motion so fast he almost missed it was happening, I pulled him out from under me to sit and laced my hands around his neck and  _ twisted _ .

There was a faint snap before the dull thud of his body hitting the snow.

That had been two days ago.

I didn’t see the fourth Illyrian who had run off as I began my trek after that first fight. When I crested the peak of the slope where we’d landed, I surveyed the mountains and valleys around me and sent the shadows off in our game of call and return.

_ East _ …

_ West… _

I ground my teeth in frustration, but willed myself to remain calm. Calm was how I weathered the storms. Calm and silence.

Rhysand was in one direction and Cassian was in the other. I was somewhere in between, but I could sense that Rhys was closest. So I peeled East and made for the slender Lord’s son who had taught me how to listen to the darkness.

I traveled quickly that third day savoring the ceasefire of Night’s relentless cruelties. Even being up so high in the mountains where I almost felt I could kiss the sky without having to fly through it, the sun felt far off. I was never quite able to capture it. My skin was permanently cold, my blood ice.

Rhys liked to joke it was what made my shadows so temperamental, always binding around me like a thick winter coat.

I met few along my way and killed even less among them, stopping little and eating what meager food I could find. My shadows flowed constantly in and out of me alerting me to my brothers. Rhys was close, so close I could almost scent him on the air. The kind of power he had built up inside of him, it was damn near impossible not to feel it no matter how far away you got.

But he was still a day’s hike away and Cassian two more beyond that, though I could tell from the reports my shadows brought me that we were all heading with increasingly speed in the same direction - towards each other.

* * *

I awoke, as I so often did, not to miscellaneous sound, but a voice, whispering in my ear.

_ Daaaaaaaaanger, _ it said. And then,  _ twoooooooo _ .

The syllables were always drawn out when the worst was happening, kind of like they enjoyed the misery, but I’d long gotten used to it.

My eyes snapped open and I jumped up as quietly as I could manage. I almost reached for a sword at my back, forgetting I didn’t have one. Not out here.

I hadn’t found a cave or alcove to rest in for the night, so I’d made a nest in a small dip on the the mountainside where the snow was not quite so thick. The slopes prevented me from seeing over the mountain’s edge, but any passing threats would not get by my silent friends ever circling around me. The small fire I had indulged in to keep warm after the day’s rain was nearly out.

A chill ran through me. The trees weren’t quite silent as they should have been and I could smell the husky scent of Illyrian blood nearby, blood that was spitting and churning, ready to kill.

They came over the edge I couldn’t see past - two of them, exactly as the shadows had warned. When they were close enough for me to properly scent them, I couldn’t place their smell, though it felt familiar. It was Illyrian, but not from Lord Devlon’s camp. Not unusual, given that the Blood Rite passed at the same time for all Illyrian novices looking to pass.

But they also smelled older, too old to be out in these woods for the Blood Rite. Just as I stood and stealed myself to face them head on, no hiding or surprises, they crested the ridge and in the pale light of my campfire, I saw their faces.

They were older, but the changes would have been imperceptible to anyone who saw them day-to-day as I’m sure my father did. For someone like me who hadn’t seen them in ten years, the changes were striking.

But their wings marked me most of all. They were still flexed wide as strong and capable as ever, but somehow, seeing them outside of my eight-year-old eyes as a now fully matured male made them less impressive. They didn’t look nearly as large or scary to me anymore as they once had.

“Shadowsinger,” my eldest step-brother said taking a step towards me. That he would even go so far as to call me by that name surprised me.

Even in the dim light of night, I could see the piercing look in his eyes. I heard his tongue gloss over his lips and teeth, begging for a taste of me. “Still silent as ever, I see,” he said. My other step-brother - no,  _ his _ brother - tisked behind him on the ledge. “Let’s see if we can change that.”

And I knew. I knew it as soon as he lunged for me and his brother stood by chuckling why they’d come. The Blood Rite was known throughout all of Illyria regardless of whether or not you were taking it yourself. Camps warred with one another, both for sport and from blood feuds. My father was sure to have known I’d be taking the Rite this year and so surely too his sons had found out.

Did they know how strong I’d become? Had word reached them that I was more powerful than any of them now with my new friends, Illyrian and shadow alike, by my side? Did my step-brothers come for me of their own accord or did - Cauldron damn them all - my father _ send _ them?

For once, I got the first hit in on him, my fist colliding with his teeth. He rebounded without pause and sent his knuckles back against my nose. Some things never change.

Blood dripped across my lips as the shadows whispered to dance at his feet and I kicked out quickly, striking his shins in a spin. He toppled, but not before springing up at me and we tangled in a heap on the ground, fists and shoulders and blood and pure determination written across both our faces.

_ Coming, coming, COMING! _

The shadows went into a frenzy as the other brother approached. Had it been any other two Illyrians save Rhys and Cassian, I could have laid them both out bare, no problem. But somehow, seeing their faces and knowing why they’d come injected me with too many doubts and before I knew it, I was pinned.

My legs wrapped around the Illyrian’s waist and tugged, but he managed to remain in place, laughing as my face twisted in frustration.

“Now there’s a little emotion,” he said, whispering a low snarl. His brother knelt beside me and pulled out a long, curved knife from his belt.

“Pity we couldn’t have seen this face last time your mother came for a visit,” he said low and taunting in my ear. “She would have enjoyed something pleasant to look at before she died.”

A dry sob rose up in my throat, but I refused to let it pass. I hated them. I hated them so much I was going to go blind from the rage of it.

The knife caressed my ear, trailed a line down my neck and shoulder until it met with the portion of my back where skin met membrane. The tip pressed in ever so slightly and I howled. “Let’s see,” the Illyrian started to say, his words a mockery of the last time he’d toyed with my body, but a blast of energy knocked him and his brother off their feet and into the distance.

Darkness exploded around us. A darkness filled with stars and galaxies. It was so all consuming even in the pit of night that I thought the gap between Night and Day had been bridged for me to see through to the other side.

I knew darkness. I knew shadows. They swarmed to me like bees to the honeycomb and guided my every movement. My step-brothers gasped and groped in their blindness as my real brother strutted toward me, flicking stars out of his path as if they were nothing more than lint on his shirt. Rhysand looked like a king.

“What happened to no magic?” I asked him when he reached me. He shrugged.

“It’s not like they’re going to live to tell the tale,” he said. “Plus, they deserve it. If we got caught for  _ this _ , it’d be worth it.”

“And the wings?” His wings were gone, disappeared to only he knew where.

“It’s just as uncomfortable having them tucked away beneath the skin as it is with ropes bound around my chest,” he explained. “But at least this way, I don’t get rope burn.” A boasting smirk slid across his face.

“You’re a terrible cheat,” I said, shaking my head even though I saw the logic through my jealousy. What I wouldn’t give to pull the ropes and free my wings just then. He laughed and then his eyes found my brothers crawling around in the snow, trying to follow our voices to us.

“You good?” Rhys asked.

“Oh yes,” I said. “Better than I’ve been in a long time.”

A glossy, vengeful look swam over Rhysand’s eyes, one full of a dangerous power neither Cassian nor I would ever fully understand. “Then let’s go to work.”

He took one and I took the other. I grabbed the fallen dagger and carved a hole out of the Illyrian’s throat until his blood had covered my face in a rich, luxurious fabric of victory and gore. The body dropped and I watched Rhysand employ other much more dastardly, but far cleaner methods to dispose of the second. 

A feline smile of amusement flexed on Rhys’ face as he played with the Illyrian’s mind. He enjoyed this, I realized. Not when it was innocent blood being spilt, but when he knew they deserved it, Rhysand loved to watch and feel their minds deteriorate in his hands.

When at last the screaming was so high and shrill penetrating the night air, Rhys dropped him and with barely even a passing wave of his hands, he misted the bodies. Even as blood floated through the air like a fine mist, I couldn’t help but be pleased knowing my father and his bride would never find a body to bury. They would have to live with simply knowing what happened.

Rhys turned to me. “How far is Cassian?” he asked.

“Half a day,” I replied as the shadows whispered to me. He’d caught up to us too.

He nodded and together we turned to leave. I didn’t spare my former step-brothers a second thought after that night.

* * *

 

The three of us made it out of the mountains and back to our camp before any of the others had returned. We fought and murdered along the way and between the three of us, it was  _ easy _ . No one could lay more than a finger on us before they found themselves out cold, sometimes for good.

Cassian barked thick, loud cries of laughter at Rhys when he discovered how horribly he’d been cheating the elements. Rhys let him kick his ass several times over in the snow and dirt to make up for it, but no one complained when he threw blankets of darkness and warmth over us in the dead of night to stop our shivering.

Lord Devlon was annoyed when he saw us trudging back into camp, but he wasn’t surprised to see us. Rhys had returned his wings to his back with rope again and we left the week’s worth of blood on our skin and clothes for extra measure. Let them see what we’d done. For all of Rhys’ scheming, lives had been taken at our expense -  _ because _ of us. There would be no denying us our status as men now - bastard, half-breed, High Lord’s son or not.

We were each given back our siphons, Cassian and I earning an additional two, and the ropes at our backs were cut. A tense moment passed before Devlon sighed and granted us our victory.

A blade of Illyrian steel was placed in each of our hands. We were told to name them and protect them at all costs. An Illyrian weapon was not to be taken lightly or pass into enemy hands.

I shared knowing looks of relief, longing, and outright joy with my brothers as we held our blades between us. Nearly ten years of training, fucking, and fighting together and we’d become the one thing I’d craved since I was an infant: family.

So naturally, we slung our blades at each other almost at once, testing the feel of them out and proving ourselves further. I felt light as air despite the heaviness of that week in the mountains the Blood Rite had brought. And when I fell asleep that night after a hot shower and a full meal, I felt at peace for the first time even if not entirely whole.

Two weeks later, I still hadn’t named my sword. Cassian and I tossed ideas back and forth as we sparred in the rings, sunlight reflecting off the blades. But the name suddenly wasn’t quite so important as Cassian spun me with the force of his blow and stopped, an addled expression that was goofy and lustful overcoming his face all at once.

Two weeks of victory. Ten years of freedom. A lifetime of battle. And none of it mattered anymore. Not a single damned piece of it.  


Because when I turned around just then and saw her and for the first time, I felt the sunlight on my skin.


End file.
